


Giving Life A Purpose

by therobotjane



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therobotjane/pseuds/therobotjane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brief story written from the point of view of one of Dr. Lecter's patients that finds herself on the menu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giving Life A Purpose

His eyes are piercing. They glimmer with intelligence, need, hunger. He looks at me like I’m food, like he is a predator and I am his prey.

It makes me shiver. My heart is trying to escape the cage of my ribs. It pounds and flutters, rushing the fear through my veins. And yet, joining the fear is a sick anticipation, like when you look over a cliff and have the sudden urge to jump. Along with the frantic scrabbling of my heart, there is a clenching, warm tension low in my stomach. My hands are damp, embarrassingly clammy, but they twitch of their own accord, my fingers longing to feel the silk of his paisley tie or the smooth softness of his neatly coiffed hair.

Something gleams on the table, the rich mahogany expanse to his right. A very fine knife, expensive-looking and clean, the light shimmering across its diamond edge. And still, he waits. Potential screams through his shoulders, clearly ready to pounce. He is a predator, lying in wait, expecting his quarry to flee.

But I have no intention of fleeing.

He looms, seeming so large, the planes of his face angular and threatening. I can see the fitness of him, well-fed and athletic. My body screams for me to run, like a frightened little rabbit. My muscles spasm, trying to convince my brain that it is time to depart. And yet, I remain still, a doe in the headlights.

A smirk, almost, plays across his rather severe mouth. He speaks, I think, but a wild buzzing in my ears prevents me from making out any more than a deep thrum and a cultured turn of vowels.

“What do you want?” I manage. My throat is dry. I swallow desperately, trying to make my voice sound less pathetic. “…Dr. Lecter?"

As soon as the whisper of his name leaves my lips, he attacks, all irresistible force and inevitability. His weight hits me, bearing me down. My head strikes the hard floor beneath me, shaking reality. I bite my tongue, blood flooding my mouth, moistening my dry throat.

He is over me, straddling my waist, his bulk holding me down. His perfect hair is slightly mussed, a few strands out of place, looking totally savage in comparison with his usual appearance. Again, I get the impression that he’s looking at me as if I’m a meal. His eyes sizing me up in a completely different way than most men. And it is thrilling.

Suddenly overwhelmed with need and impatience, my body bucks underneath him. A slight arch of an eyebrow is his only reply. My pulse is choking me as I realize that this is what I've been looking for, that this validates my entire existence. That all of the nagging inadequacy and search for meaning are washed away under the liquid heat of his stare. Instead of my life passing before my eyes, I see my body, taken apart and turned into a delectable feast. Bits of my flesh sliding through those harsh lips, bringing a sigh of appreciation. My organs moved around with that intelligent tongue, chewed, swallowed. Turned into nourishment for that finely tuned body.

A soft sigh escapes me, full of longing. This is what I've been looking for. Objective purpose. I arch my body, tilting my head back, exposing my neck. I've eaten at Hannibal’s table; I know how delicious I will be.

“I’m ready,” I murmur.

* * *

Hannibal stands at his stove, sautéing something that smells divine.

“You always were an interesting patient,” he remarks, dipping one finger into the simmering sauce and bringing it to his lips.


End file.
